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Last year our dear friend Ruth Leggin was tragically killed in an accident on her way home from working at the Highland Games festival. As Welsh League celebrates its 10th Anniversary, we remember the untimely passing of Ruth and others. Dyma nhw: from Bill Brazelton As there was a shyness, on her place in our hearts is steady and proud. --o0o-- Poem by John Good in memory of Ruth Leggin "Ruth" Pwy sy wedi ein pasio? - Ar 'sgidiau mor ysgafn aeth heibio? Fel cyfnos clws ein cofio Dyna gymres dan y gro. Who passed us? Light-footed went by? As a pleasant twilight we remember, A Welsh woman lies lost. --o0o-- "Hiraeth Ruth" by Tammy Ryan The heavens are rejoicing Receiving a dear friend Her presence is a blessing For her it is a longing To sing the language of heaven Mae'r wybrennau yn llawenhau Yn croesawu annwyl cyfaill Hithau gw^ydd yn fendith Am hithau mae hi'n hiraeth I ganu'r iaith y Nefoedd --o0o-- Also related to the loss of a loved one is this elegy from Rona Laycock, who lives in the UK and is currently working towards a PhD at Swansea University. She writes, "My poem commemorates the day I took my mother's ashes to be buried in the family cemetery overlooking the most beautiful place in the world. It is a little sad but we celebrated her life, which she lived to the full." The Mawddach Estuary From up here I watch as the tide attacks. Sweeping round the curves, grinding away at the shore, harrowing the sandbanks. It has no choice but to come, a higher power wills it, pulls it away from its bed and drives it up the funnel between the fields where sheep still cry for lost lambs. I remember you telling me that at Penmaenpool its bullying ways cost lives, barging a boat onto sturdy struts, up-ending and shattering. Frail and hardy alike pitted their strength against the moon, becoming fragile flotsam. In mourning I carried you away from your unloved South and brought you here. This winter Tuesday, above the Mawddach, I have kept my promise. |
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| A Cywydd Llosgymog - Night Sky Over Wales Dorris Douglass Franklin, Tennessee 6 March 2005 The dome of a clear night calls me To gaze at the heavenly sea. High above me, way away, Shining stars forever endure. Men of the past felt the same lure. John Jones for sure, felt the sway. Born poor, a working man by day, Counting tiles of slate, shipped away Without delay, from Bangor. But yet a genius of the night, Built homemade telescopes to sight Snow caps of white, on Mars' core. Also to view the craters deep With secrets of the moon to reap, Ere he could sleep, our John Jones. As long as there's a sky to see, Astronomers will ever be, And seeking me, the night drones Welsh Miner David Llewellyn Morgan Baden Pennsylvania, USA 14 Jan 2005 He went down at six at the start of his shift His face and lungs were black He spoke no English for in his valley nothing but Welsh As he sung an old hymn others joined in voices to God in song A few more hours and home he would be back to his Brownwyn and her good roastbeef His children gathered around as he softly said a prayer The Welsh Miner looked at them as a tear filled his eye He didn't want them to live a miner's life Nothing but sorrow and strife. Welsh Sunday David Llewellyn Morgan Baden Pennsylvania, USA 14 Jan 2005 After chapel singing as we walked home Tea laid out on the table in a picturesque way Good Caerphilly and cheddar cheese, homemade bread and butter with gooseberry jam, beef on a platter with mash Father sat in his chair savoring every puff of his cigar Mam and gran drinking pots of good strong tea speaking in the native tongue. Brother and I walking down street to sneak a fag perhaps getting soaked in a down pour on the way back home. Tidy up now before Uncle and Auntie arrive More food and all in a good mood grand ole Welsh Sunday. Pwy sy'n fel ni? David Llewellyn Morgan Baden, Pennsylvania, USA 14 Jan 2005 "Pwy sy'n fel ni?" Said my dad to me as we sat in a pub looking out towards the sea. "Neb" I said and "neb" said he as he ordered another pint. "Pwy sy'n fel ni?" No people on the earth who can sing like the Welsh, Dad said to his son. The pub keeper nodded agreeing as did Mr. Jenkins and Pugh. All agreed proud of their quaint little race. Then the stories were told of the warriors from long ago. King Arthur and Merlin and archers requested by Nations of the world. Dylan Thomas and Sir Richard and our holy Dewi Sant, All of the men asked. Nobody! we all replied. I remember that day with Dad who is gone and took my son to the center of town. The Welsh Flag flew as I held his little hand. "Pwy sy'n fel ni?" I asked and he looked at the Dragon flying high, "Neb!" Writer's note: Pwy sy'n fel ni is Welsh for "Who is like us?" Neb is Welsh for "Nobody." Afon Gamlan Lynn Watts Tucson, AZ, USA 20 Oct 2004 In forest glade by streams at home Spirits of air and water roam. By wind through trees, by waterfalls, Goddess of Life - to me she calls. I shall go and see her there. Sounds of cascades on the air. Sometimes gentle, soft and mild; Often is she fast and wild. Here we speak in words unheard Through water, wind and rising bird. Grey-blue she soars and tells my soul Today I, too, can be made whole. Fire of sun and earth beneath, Air and water - these four bequeath The strength of all the Spirits fair. I, too, can own it, if I dare. The Mist of Cymru Don Evans Central Arizona, USA 17 Oct 2004 Lo, ye land of Merlin's myth, where Draco dwells neath Arthur's monolith. It bids thee welcome to the ancient spirits quest, longing for the hour of it's final rest. Where knights once searched for hidden treasure, now, bard and yeomen seek thy pleasure. Low green vale in the deepest glen, they give rise to mighty Yr Wyddfa's den. This land, that summons to it's host, silently speaks through the raven's ghost. Blood, running hot from a sea of mist, timeless, Cymru, this place of legends tryst. Breast aching, eyes yearning to see, alas, no peace, always beckoning thee. Hiraeth Green Caitlyn Johnston Tucson, AZ copyright 18 Sept 2004 The greens of Lady Sonora are pea-green and sage, a wilted khaki olive or anemic yellowish green. Emerald appears only after rain. Yet they tear out the desert blossom by fuchsia blossom. and the lady of the Sun withers. Hair by Javelina hair she blows away as massive trucks rumble like earth quakes disturbing her rockbed bones. I sit here in my blue chair with a Brains I set my sails; green is so much more appealing in Wales. (untitled) Caitlyn Johnston copyright 8 Feb 2003 Horsie little girls grow up to be Ladies of the Lake, to whom others look up when they start to wake. Dispensing wisdom from the trees Horsey Old Women grin as they talk to the shadows, exchanging secrets with the sea. But you'd never know by looking -- they wear jeans, lipstick and jack boots. These modern day Eponas still teach the owlets to hoot. |
| Welcome to The Bard's Corner. Here you will find prose and poetry, both English and Welsh, contributed by our members. First, some favorites from years past. |
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